by Joseph Nagle
The fantasy lasted a long time, longer than York had realized.
A knock at the door interrupted his mind-play, and York snapped back to attention, calling, “One moment, I am almost finished.” He was almost ashamed.
The old woman had returned. York quickly dressed and saw that she had waited for him in the hallway. She moved her stooped frame closer to York and then motioned for him to come.
York obliged.
He followed her as she walked down the marble hallway; they stopped in front of the infirmary.
Doctor Hora was there, tending to CPT Scott.
“Ah, come in. Come in. I have been finished for some time. He rests well,” explained Doctor Hora.
Finished? Already? I must have been in the shower longer than I thought.
“Will he be okay?” asked York.
“He has lost a lot of blood, but I think he will survive. His recovery will take some time—I had to remove one of his kidneys.”
Dr. Hora’s eyes spoke of the truth; York saw the man’s compassion in them.
York put a hand on Scott’s arm. He was thankful that his commander and friend would live.
Outside, on Juhu beach and near the gate to the Theological Society, the small, skinny assistant squatted under a palm tree. He had his disfigured face buried deep into a mango. Intent on finishing his meal, he waited to make his call until done.
An emaciated mutt, blackened by the color of its fur and the filth of its elements, cowered close to the man.
With only the rind of his mango left, he tossed it into the grass and wiped the small remnants of fleshy mango bits from his cheeks and onto his dirty khaki pants.
The black dog limped nervously and erratically but quickly to the rind. It snatched the discarded bit of fruit and scampered pathetically away.
The Indian man reached into his pocket; he pulled out a cell phone and pressed a series of numbers into its keypad.
He waited for the man to answer. When the man finally did, the Indian flatly stated in Gujarati, “They are here. They are in the doctor’s house.”
That was all that he said. He listened to what the man on the other end commanded.
His instructions were short and said only once. The call was over; he snapped shut the cell phone, stood, and walked down to the kulfi stand. It had just opened. He thought to himself that two scoops of pistachio-topped, coconut kulfi instead of his normal one scoop would be the perfect reward for a job well done. The line was already fifteen rick drivers deep. He pushed himself gruffly through the throngs of drivers who parted immediately when they saw him; he pointed at the vendor with the blackened fingernail of his index finger. He shouted out his order.
With both scoops of the kulfi already in his mouth and nearly devoured, he smiled as the creamy cold treat drizzled down his cheek. It had been the easiest five hundred rupees he had ever made.
Tonight he would earn five thousand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A RUSE IS A RUSE
THE UNITED STATES
GEOLOGICAL SURVEY
Lou slowly inhaled on the cigarette, the lit end crackled loudly in the quiet room as it neared the filter; he could smell the tobacco distinctly. His inhale was long; he wanted to savor every drag—right down to the last one.
He could hear them in the hallway. He knew it would be only a matter of moments. The helicopter hovered close overhead; he was sure that he heard two of them.
Lowering his head to his chin, he flicked away the butt. The cigarette was finished. He thought that he might be, too.
He exhaled his final, long plume of smoke and watched as it curled slowly into fat, twisting clouds.
He adjusted himself in his chair, but the moment that he moved, a sharp pain ran through his shattered arm. Lou winced and waited for the wave of pain to pass.
They were getting closer; he thought he heard his second in command.
It was time.
Lou slid carefully to the floor, favoring his broken arm, and lay on his side.
The very moment that he did, his men burst into the office.
“In here!” shouted the Special Activities Division officer. Lou’s officer.
Instantly the room was full of his men; the barrels of their laser-mounted weapons were all pointed at him.
Uneasily they approached, unsure of what had occurred.
Lou groaned.
“He’s alive!” shouted his second in command.
Slowly the man rolled Lou over. Lou’s swollen eye remained firmly shut while the other fluttered.
The officer saw Lou’s badly broken arm and the injuries to his face and asked, “Sir, what happened?”
Lou’s answer was pithy, and he coughed out, “I don’t know, Ben.”
“Shit, sir,” said the officer quietly so the others couldn’t hear, “you gotta give me something. Langley wants your ass.”
Lou repeated, “Ben, look at me, I don’t know what the fuck just happened. One minute I’m tracking the Doc and the next, you are standing over me. Goddamn, my arm hurts!”
Lou tried to sit up but screamed out in pain and fell roughly back to the floor.
“Don’t try to move, Lou. You’re busted up pretty bad.” Ben turned to another officer and barked out, “Get an ambulance here and a paramedic! Do it now!”
Another officer asked, “Where should we take him?”
“Back to Langley,” responded the officer as he looked back at Lou. “Those are our orders.”
So much for playing stupid, thought Lou.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A TIME TO RUN
MUMBAI, INDIA
Staring over the empty, black waters of the Indian Ocean reminded him that he was alone in this world. It mattered not that the streets of Mumbai—the only placed he had lived—were choked with the bodies of every caste: from the Dalits to the Brahmins, and every caste in between; there were bodies everywhere.
From the dark-skinned rick drivers to the fair-skinned well-to-dos: every square meter of street and sidewalk was filled.
Every day he moved through the same streets, running errands, doing someone else’s bidding. There was always a body to step over, a hawking child to push aside, an upper-caste man to bow to, or some filthy dog to kick. He was never alone, not allowed to work for himself, not allowed to think for himself.
His head was filled with rage.
He always tasted anger on his tongue.
Everything in his life belonged to someone else. Even who he was—what he was—could be claimed by another man: three men to be precise.
He looked around the beach. He wanted a moment to be alone, but even now the movements of humanity surrounded him. To his right, down the beach, fisherman squatted around pockets of fire, smoking their cloves. Some were spitting globs of red saliva through paan-stained teeth; most were half-intoxicated from the shared bottle of Scotch being passed around. They cackled on about the day’s catch or some other matter that had no importance.
To his left, old women nearing death ventured to the water’s edge to offer themselves to whatever god they had seen fit to praise this evening.
Little homeless boys and girls ran half-naked through the sands, their bodies marked with the pocks of infection.
He hated this world; he loathed his part in it.
The cigarette in his hand burned close to his finger, the heat sizzled against the top layer of his skin, but he couldn’t feel it. He raised his arm to bring the cigarette closer to his lips; only then did he see that it was burning him. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t feel a thing.
Taking a drag, he laughed bitterly at the irony: the lumpy scar tissue on his fingers formed by the horrid acid burns prevented the burning from the cigarette to be felt.
His laugh abated quickly. He wasn’t even sure why it had struck him as funny. Anger filled his eyes, and his lips turned to a scowl. He flicked the remains of the cigarette at the dog nearest to him, hitting it along the shallowness of its empty stomach.
The dog howled slightly and ran away.
His phone rang. The caller was on time, just as he said that he would be.
“Hello,” answered the Indian.
“Do it now; is there a problem with that?” asked the caller.
“No, boss, no problem: both of them?”
“No. Kill the hurt one. Leave the other alive. Do you understand?”
“Yes, boss. I understand. Same price, okay?”
“Don’t worry about the money. Kill the hurt one, and you will be paid what we agreed.”
The call ended. He looked up toward the gate into the Theological Society; the guard was asleep as usual. He checked his watch and waited.
Barely fifteen minutes had passed when Dr. Hora walked out of his home. It was his ritual; this much the Indian man knew. Dr. Hora always took a slow stroll around the tree-lined roads of the upper-class, walled society as the day ended. He waited until the doctor was out of sight and then made his way to his home. Soon he was inside.
He was a lithe man: small and light and not more than one hundred and fifteen pounds. His footsteps across the marble made no sound.
Quietly he passed the mat where York lay. He stood over the young Green Beret, making sure that he was asleep.
When convinced that the American was not awake, he turned and walked quietly into the infirmary. As he neared the entryway to where CPT Scott recovered, he passed a large, oval mirror that hung along the corridor wall. He caught a glimpse of his face and stopped.
The burns on his face were gnarled and bulbous. The thick scars disgusted him and filled him with hate; it had taken years before he could dare look at himself. Gingerly, he fingered the smooth, undulate scar tissue. He thought of that day when three boys from an upper caste had thrown him to the ground and beaten him. But that hadn’t been enough for them.
No.
They needed to hurt him more.
They marked him with acid; on that day he had felt a pain never before imagined. The innocent boy that he had been died on that day: in his place, he was reborn and filled with an anger that could be satisfied in only one way.
The American wouldn’t be his first kill.
He would only be one at the end of a long line of many.
His first kill had been one of the three upper-caste boys: their leader. It had taken a number of years to find him, but when he did, he had made him pay. It was his sloppiest kill; the boy didn’t die easily. Before his death, he had carved the boy’s face beyond recognition. He had held up a mirror, making him stare upon it just as he was forced to stare upon his own disfiguration.
The boy’s death had been haphazard and uncoordinated, but it had been his most satisfying.
The tone from the soldier’s heart monitor brought his attention back to his mission. His eyes retreated from the mirror and refocused on the doorway ahead. He entered the infirmary.
The injured soldier would not wake. The drugs flowing into his veins through the intravenous solution made sure of that. The Indian walked to the monitor that emitted a low tone that chimed in conjunction with CPT Scott’s heart rate.
He turned it off.
Then he walked to a drawer and slowly opened it, careful not to make any sound; from inside the drawer, he pulled out a syringe. Next, he went to the infirmary’s small refrigerator and quietly pried its door ajar. Lit up by the small interior light, numerous glass vials of different drugs lined the shelves. He knew precisely, however, where on the shelf the drug he needed would be.
Grabbing a vial, he held it up and inserted the needle through its lid. Drawing more than he needed, he set the remaining pentobarbital on the counter.
As he stood next to the hurt soldier, he watched as the man’s large chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. He smiled at the soon-to-be incongruous use of the drug: he had first used the pentobarbital as a preoperative sedative when he had assisted the doctor earlier. Now, he would use it to kill the man.
His killings were no longer amateurish; after he had found the other two boys, his taste for killing didn’t end. He had long ago graduated to be among the best.
Slipping the needle into the plastic tubing, he depressed the plunger and watched as the fast-acting drug mixed in with the saline.
As if he had been jolted by electricity, CPT Scott’s eyes opened wildly, and he sprang into a seated position.
He was confused; he didn’t know where he was. He saw the small, surprised Indian man. A hypodermic needle was in his hand.
Out of instinct, perhaps, but mostly fear, CPT Scott’s right arm shot out and clamped the man by the throat. But the drug was already taking effect.
The Indian man was shocked. This shouldn’t have happened.
CPT Scott toppled over and onto the floor, releasing the Indian man. A metal tray near his bed fell loudly next to him.
In the other room, SSG York sprang to his feet as the crashing noise jolted him from his slumber.
As he ran to the infirmary, he nearly crashed into the doctor’s assistant in the hallway. The small Indian pushed past York and blurted out in broken English, “I get doctor! You—go help friend!”
York didn’t notice that he still held the syringe of pentobarbital in his hand.
York ran into the room; CPT Scott was lying on his face in an awkward position. He rolled him over and was surprised at how peaceful he looked.
Feeling for a pulse, there was none.
CPT Scott was dead.
York looked around the room, confused. He saw the glass vial on the counter; he saw an open drawer. Clambering to his feet, he ran to the drawer. In it were boxes of different-sized hypodermic needles. He grabbed the vial and looked at it. He eyed the label and saw the word: barbiturate.
Then it hit him. The Indian man—the doctor’s assistant. He had killed him!
He ran out of the infirmary and down the marble hallway. The front door was open. Running outside, he tripped over something on the front porch. He caught himself against a stone column, which painfully stopped his fall.
On the porch he saw what had tripped him. The body of the white-haired doctor lay neatly across the wooden planks of the porch.
A hypodermic needle hung loosely from his neck. Looking frantically back and forth, York saw no one.
York didn’t know what to do.
He was in India and alone.
His commander was dead.
Out of his periphery, a slow-moving figure caught his attention. York tensed his muscles, readying to attack.
From the shadows, Baju-kaki emerged. A lone tear trickled down the left side of her face. There was a tremble in her small hands.
York was frozen. After a long moment, he held out his palms toward the old woman as if to say what next?
She understood.
Baju-kaki looked at Dr. Hora and held one hand to her mouth. The pain of his death could be seen across her weathered and tired face. She shuffled toward York and grasped his forearm with her shaking hand. Gently she pulled him into the house. Inside, they were standing next to a chest of drawers.
She opened one and pulled out a thick, rolled-up wad of rupees.
Gesturing for York to come closer, she put her mouth near his ear, and said, “They come for you. Run.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
LEAVING IT ALL BEHIND
DULLES INTERNATIONAL
AIRPORT
Washington Dulles was as busy as its reputation. This was good. Michael knew it would be easier to blend in with the crowds. He made sure to keep his face lowered, never raising it above forty-five degrees; this would render the CIA’s face recognition program nearly—but not completely—useless.
He found a restroom and an unoccupied stall. He removed the black duffel bag from his shoulder and ruffled through its contents. As fast as he could, he removed his pants and shirt and, in their place, donned a fresh set of clothes.
Michael checked the bag for the other things he needed. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found them: an American
Express card that was linked to a dummy account, a small stack of euro notes, multiple passports, and a cell phone with a European SIM card.
Opening the stall door, he stepped out. No one was around, and he took the opportunity to shove his discarded clothes into the trash. It was then he noticed the dried blood on his forearms and the hallmarks of handcuffs scraped across his wrists.
He hurried to one of the sinks and looked at himself in the mirror. Instead of seeing himself, he saw Sonia. His hands gripped more firmly onto the porcelain edges of the sink. He had to shake her from his mind. He forced himself to focus on the mission; it was what he was trained to do. Only then did he see his own face. You look like shit, Michael!
Across his face were salted streaks of dried sweat, and his hair was nowhere near in place. A few small scrapes and bruises adorned his right cheek, but nothing that would draw too much attention. Michael turned on the water and started to wash away the dirt, sweat, and bloodstains. He then wet his hair and pushed it straight back with his hands, combing it with his fingers.
Picking up his bag, he left the restroom. Once outside, he looked around. His gaze was focused. He eyed the crowds carefully; he looked for any telltale signs that he was being watched. He checked for the two-man spotter teams, for cameras that may be pointed in his direction, and for anyone that appeared out of place. His senses were on fire; his mastery of counter-intelligence was in action.
Onward he walked, his path known.
Soon, he saw it. On the far end of the terminal was a sign that quietly marked the location for the airport’s business center.
He made his way there.
Inside, he found an empty desk; on it were a computer, printer, and fax machine. He swiped the American Express card through the credit card reader attached to the computer, knowing full well he couldn’t use it again. An electronic warning would soon be on its way to Langley, telling them his location. He didn’t have much time.
He went to work.
A signal was routed to the desk of the section chief at Langley.
“Damn it, Michael—what are you doing?!” he stammered to no one in particular, and then shouted through his office door, “Mr. Garrido, get in here.”